


The Joys of the Flesh

by rhapsodisiac



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood Drinking, Desire, Hand Jobs, Lestat is thirsty, Lots of Touching, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodisiac/pseuds/rhapsodisiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yet I wanted so to touch him - his hands, his arms, his face. I wanted to feel his flesh with these new immortal fingers,” - Anne Rice,  “The Vampire Lestat”</p>
<p>A continuation/alternate ending to Lestat spying on Nicolas, in which he gives in to his desires and pays him a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joys of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious: the scene I'm building off of is chapter 11 from part II: The Legacy of Magnus in "The Vampire Lestat." I'm so excited to finally join the site and I had a lot of fun writing this, trying to channel my inner Lestat lol. I hope you enjoy it!

Lying in stillness on the roof in the Ile St.-Louis, I listened as Nicki set down his violin. It was a slow and gentle gesture, done with great care. There was a low reverberation humming through its strings, something that only my preternatural senses could detect. It was as if the instrument still sang with the despairing melody Nicki had poured into it.

Without looking, I knew that he slumped down onto his bed, that he curled to the pillows and held his head in his hands. His emotional performance had pulled everything out of him, had exhausted his body, but it did not quiet the chaos of his mind. It was then that I decided, perhaps I could help him – to see me, might that relieve him of his despair?

It was quite a selfish fancy, I will admit. 

I rose from my hiding place, darkness having fallen fast around me by the time I opened my eyes. Making quick work of scaling the building towards his flat, I stopped in his open window to see him still in his tailored suit of green velvet, giving himself over to shallow and fitful sleep.

My feet touched down silently to the floor and I looked about the dim room; so full of material things, yet so empty. I wondered distantly if that reflected Nicki in some symbolic way. _Nicki._ I settled my eyes upon him, the slight figure with dark shadows on his face, brow furrowed even in slumber.

Sitting on the edge of his mattress, I barely shifted the weight, but still he stirred. It was just as it had been when he peered out the window, sensing my proximity even in this alien form. Or perhaps it was that primal sense within us all, that peculiar prickling sensation that alerts us when a predator is watching. As his eyes adjusted and found me, I watched them cycle through first confusion, then fear, recognition, doubt and finally, accusation. Anger. 

“Where have you been?” he asked, his voice somehow both harsh and soft. “What happened to you? I heard you, that night, I heard you call out to me and you were gone–” 

He tried to sit up but I stopped him, gripping his shoulders and pressing him back into the mattress. I watched him wince and quickly loosened my grasp, remembering my strength. He struggled hopelessly against me while I held him down with minimal effort. As I slid one hand up to cradle his face and dragged my thumb across his lips, he acquiesced beneath my familiar touch. Rather, once-familiar; it was now foreign and cold, a mimicry of the human hand it had once been.

“We don’t need to talk about such things. I’m here now.” I spoke barely above a whisper. Whatever bitter words he spat in protest, I did not pay mind to; I found myself staring down at his lips, seeing for the first time in such detail every line and curve, the way they moved so delicately to give shape to his scorn. I wondered what it would be to touch mine to his, to brush those animated by life with the lifeless. Leaning my face close to his quieted his fussing, and I kissed him lightly, just enough to soften his apprehension. 

And oh, the sweet hell of his arms wrapping around me.

I shifted over him, straddling him, and kissed him again, more deeply, feeling the warmth of his lips melt against mine. He returned my passion fiercely, clutching me with a force that would have hurt my mortal body. I could sense the excitement thrumming amidst the maelstrom of questions and anguish crowded within him. He was still mine. 

My fingers moved quickly, working through the buttons of his jacket, the delicate fabric of his silken shirt. I needed to feel his skin. Pressing my cheek to his exposed ivory chest, I reveled in the meeting of mortal and immortal flesh. 

It had been such a short time since my own change, yet I was still shocked to rediscover how soft and pliable he was. He felt so fragile beneath my touch - it made me want to explore every plane, every smooth expanse. To rake my fingers up his bare thighs, across his back. His garments were quickly disposed of, tossed to the floor as I opened my own shirt, pressing for more contact between us. My hands roamed his body, slipping down his chest over his beating heart, down his sides, his hips. Heat radiated off of him and I bathed in it like the warmth of the now fatal sun.

What a curious feeling, to sense the response in his body, to feel him hard beneath me while my own sex remained dormant and useless. His was a purely mortal pleasure, exclusive to those whose blood still pumped and flowed hot through their veins. But to say I remained placid and unaffected would be untrue. To hear his breathy moans in my ear as he ground his hips into mine still made me shudder.

I slid my hand between us to find his aching arousal. He responded to me eagerly, hungrily, enough to remind me of my own thirst searing my throat. I tried to fight it back as I stroked him slowly, running my tongue along his collarbone and tasting the salt on his skin. His quick breaths heaved through his chest and rattled his shoulders as he clawed for purchase on my back. We were locked together, held in this clutching embrace and I breathed him in deeply. It was a heady bouquet of sex and blood rushing just below the surface, he a veritable feast laid before me. 

“Take me, Lestat,” he whispered, and his long, beautiful violinist’s fingers threaded themselves into my hair, pulling me to him, pressing my face into his neck. He was so unsuspecting, completely unaware of what he was asking of me, inviting the monster and meaning something else entirely. But this demon I had become wanted to fulfill his wish. 

My hand still moved over him, quicker now, his breathing accented by shuddering sighs. I kissed his neck slowly, agonizingly slow. To feel his pulse racing beneath my lips, the heat of the artery separated from me by one thin, delicate layer...

As my teeth punctured the sensitive flesh of his neck, Nicki writhed in the blend of shock and pleasure - his eyes rolled back in confused ecstasy and he was spent, seed spilling over my hand. My mortal lover to the last.

The blood came in waves past my lips, over my tongue, and he was the boy on my doorstep with the fur-lined cape. _I too am impossible, Monsieur._ He was sitting with me in the little wooden room of the inn at Auvergne, telling me of Paris. He was kissing me, drunk on cheap wine. This was it, the very essence of Nicolas de Lenfent, and it was flowing into me, flooding my body. I was drowning in it, in him.

A low sound in his throat, somewhere between a moan and a raw scream, gave me a moment’s pause. I detached myself from his neck and looked into his face. He looked delirious; swollen lips wet and bruised from where he bit down on them in agonized bliss, sheen of sweat across his brow, crazed eyes staring up at me. I wondered what he saw in me then. Before him was an alabaster image of the boy he once knew, artistically sculpted in the Devil’s hand, crimson streaming from the mouth that had once spoken to him so excitedly of our future. I was beauty in all its savagery, evil in its most elegant, splendorous form.

Sliding my soiled hand out from between us, I clutched at his, threading our fingers together in the slick aftermath of his release. I had brought him to his satisfaction, and he would bring me to mine.

The thirst crested within me and I was latched to his neck once more, draining him with a desperation that left me reeling, clutching him fast as if he may fall away, disappear into the satin coverlet beneath us. Had I held any tighter I may have crushed him. His hand in mine gripped then slackened spasmodically, before finally going limp. The fount I gorged myself on began to wane.

I pulled away before those last moments, the final desperate pumps of the blood-starved heart, in time to look him in the face for the last time. His brown eyes were wide, unblinking, unseeing. It was as if he looked straight through me then, and I through him. I could peer back into the silent storm of his mind; the chaos that raged there lifted as the last shred of light he carried within him was burned out, as with the wick of a candle once it meets the pooled wax. 

_My Nicki . . . my dark, beloved Nicolas._

Shifting beside him, I cradled his head to my chest. It was done. His mind was silent. No more would the darkness haunt him; it embraced him now, enveloped him. It was all that was left. 

I brought a hand to his face and closed his eyes.


End file.
